


One, two, three

by FunnyLittleOwl



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: First Kiss, Fluff, M/M, Mrs. Hudson spies on them, Pre-Reichenbach to Post-Series 04, Sherlock teaches John how to dance through the years, angsty bits
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-04
Updated: 2017-02-04
Packaged: 2018-09-22 01:33:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,615
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9575975
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FunnyLittleOwl/pseuds/FunnyLittleOwl
Summary: Martha Louise Hudson is not a naive woman. She knows they're not a couple.So when she hears classic music blasting upstairs in the most unlikely of flats, she decides should probably go check. Just in case.That was the first time she saw them.





	

Martha Louise Hudson is not a naive woman. She knows they're not a couple.

And if she insists on hinting, assuming or dropping an innocent suggestion that they're one a little bit more than socially acceptable, well, that is only because she hopes it'll help them realize how blind they're being by firmly repressing what everyone else can sees it's there.

She plans on stopping it, though. It's not right landlady behaviour and she knows how it angers John so. He likes women, that one, of all shapes and sizes - and Sherlock, God bless him, he likes...  well, no one, really. She would know, having been more like a mother figure to him all these years. She would just know it when he did like someone for the first time.

So when she hears classic music blasting upstairs in the most unlikely of flats, she decides should probably go check. Just in case.

That was the first time she saw them.

Mrs. Hudson couldn't decide whether she was surprised or not. Something had clearly changed since they came back from that dreadful pool after meeting with that monster, that  _Moriarty_. She would frequently make up an excuse to drop by and gift them with a few of her morning biscuits (" _No trouble, boys, really, I had a whole batch to spare_ ,"), just to see how they were doing, and each time it became glaringly more obvious to her they had become closer. How exactly, she was unsure, but was still positive they weren't together like  _that_.

Still, a hand on the shoulder here, dusting one's coat there, fingers touching as they passed the newspaper, sharing their plate of food...  She was an outsider, seeing but glimpses of how they really were around each other, it was all a novelty to her. You couldn't really blame her for not being able to look away, could you?

Either way, there now she stood, hiding in the shadows, watching them through a gap in their half-open door. She was charmed by the view in front her, and put a trembling hand to her heart.

Sherlock and John were waltzing in their living room. To Johann Strauss' Blue Danube. Wearing their smartest suits and socks. She blinked and a second later they were still there. 

_Oh, boys._

Suddenly, Mrs Hudson knew what must have gotten into them. John was positively fretting earlier because his sister would be getting married (again) in a week and only now she'd requested they start the first dance together before passing her onto her new bride. Yes, the whole thing was ludicrous, indeed, but she was the one who told John he had to show support to his family no matter what, and there he was. Practicing his foot work with his flatmate to the most cliche of wedding songs. Flatmate of which, mind you, seemed abnormally gleeful about teaching John the ones, twos and threes of dancing. One could say he might even enjoy the concept of moving his body around to music, but _surely_ , it couldn't be it. Sherlock Holmes fond of waltzing, of all people, it was just too adorable to be true.

No, there must have been another explanation. She was thrown off her train of thought quite quickly, though, when the taller man slowed down their movements to speak, thankfully not noticing her standing there in shock.

"So, tell me about Amber," he said, adjusting John's hand a bit lower on his waist.

"Do you even care to know or is that your way of trying to be polite?" John frowned.

Sherlock just hummed, meaning it didn't matter either way, so John could just vent if he wanted to.

"I mean, she doesn't even _know_ her," John uttered, completely outraged. "You're supposed to be with a person for a while before you decide you love them, and _marry_ them. Isn't that what people do?"

"Sure. Mind your feet. You're out of time."

"I've met her once," John continued, "just the one time, you see, and I'm her bloody brother! Amber just stood there next to her like a shadow, talking only when directly asked something. She looked a bit too standoffish, a bit... rude, if you ask me. I honestly don't know what Harry saw in her. Clara was nice, she was _normal_..."

"She also _left_ ," Sherlock added. He was listening, after all.

"Well, there's that," John embarrassingly conceded. "Anyway, Harry has always been one for drama, that's for certain. Epic romances, extreme meltdowns, everything heightened to the max. You look away, she's going on a big adventure, getting herself in trouble, that's just how she is. It's all so dangerous with her, and then with the alcohol... I have to be careful. I'm not used to that kinda stuff in my life."

"John, you wound me," Sherlock feigned distress, swirling John around, and then presenting him with a mischievous smile, "And what am I exactly to you then? The boy next door who takes you out to play sometimes?

"You're... "John laughed heartily, trying to find the words. "It's different. With you."

It' was, at the very least, unexpected, Sherlock's private sense of humor. It took her aback with how straightforward it was, how _silly_ , how harmless, so _unlike_ him. All because of an ex-army doctor he met once and who wouldn't stop surprising him. Later, Mrs. Hudson would wonder if that was how they knew. Was that something John Watson experienced on a daily basis? Probably not, knowing Sherlock (and his moods and his reputation), but apparently just enough to make him want to stay. To be the only one allowed to see the real man behind the cold and unfeeling detective.

"It's a good thing I found the right Watson sibling then, if your sister is so irresistible. _Ouch._ "

"Don't even joke about that," John censured, then took his foot off Sherlock's, where he hit him. He then added, more serious, "Are you sure you're not going?"

Sherlock looked at him like he was mad.

"Fine, I tried. I'm gonna be bored out of my wits, though," John murmured longingly. He missteped again and was visibly frustrated. With everything, apparently.

"John," Sherlock called him with a steady voice, "look at me."

John looked up, his heart skipping a beat, from where he was staring at a particularly interesting spot on the carpet.

"You're not doing it right," Sherlock said, lifting the doctor's chin up with his hand, "You're supposed to look at your partner in the eye. Also, _concentrate._ "

If you asked Mrs. Hudson, she would tell you it was the dimmed lighting and the moonlight coming from the window, or perhaps the warning breeze of early October  - it could have been, for all that concerned her. That's what she would yell _you_ , who weren't there. Oh, but John was blushing either way. They stood like that for a couple of minutes, just moving in tune while Strauss ended and Tchaikovsky began.

"Its funny," John announced then, a bit out of the blue.

"What is?"

 

"Your eyes. I've been looking right at them and I still can't figure out for the life of me what color they are," John declared, too innocently.

Oh, he did _not._ Did he?

"I'll just leave that to your deductions, then." Sherlock replied, unfazed by his friend's unexpected admission (as much as he could fake). He disentangled himself with an excuse and walked over to John's laptop, where the music was playing, to skip to the next song. "I've always quite loathed Tchaikovsky on a deeply personal level," he stated when he saw the interrogation mark on John's face. "But let us diverge our attention back to your feet now, as you clearly cannot conceive them as a working unit."

After that, he was coaching John from his end of the sofa, making him go through excessively complicated foot patterns by himself. John got angry with it eventually, they both laughed, songs were played to exhaustion, but there was no more touching that night.

Mrs. Hudson left them to it, careful not to make a sound as she went down the stairs. She still couldn't understand them, but she thought she was getting there. 

They were not in love, not yet. 

But they were almost there.

 

* 

 

The second time Mrs. Hudson saw them, she blamed it on her hip.

She could _swear_ they wouldn't be coming back home tonight, not when there was such a complex case ahead of them, from what she'd overheard from Detective Inspector Lestrade. Something to do with prostitutes, night clubs, missing Carnival masks and the murder of several janitors with a birthmark above their eyebrows. 

They couldn't possibly be finished before daylight, so she figured she'd indulge herself with something she hadn't done in a while. She turned up the radio full blast with some of her favorite tunes and mixed up a lot of the herbal medicine she used to soothe the pain in her hip. The smell was awfully strong around the flat and she was feeling it quite heavily as well, but hopefully nobody would notice if it spread. She desperately needed the time out.

_Oh, yes. This is good, very good indeed,_  she thought to herself as her muscles began to relax _. I'm not sure why I don't do it more often. There must be a reason. But right now, I can't remember it. Oh, dear. Is that Freddie Mercury by the window?_

It could have been twenty minutes or four hours later when she heard the boys banging through the front door, without any decency for the respectful citizens who were trying to rest after a very long week. She slowly stood up and started to regain her senses.

They were surely making quite a fuss of getting home.

She walked awkwardly to the door and dared not open it this time. But she could hear them just as well.

They were giggling. Loudly. Glaringly, unequivocally, downright drunk six ways to Sunday.

"But the look on his  _face!_ " John spat. "Lestrade should have let him take off that costume first before he arrested him."

"And where would be the fun that in that?" Sherlock said, somewhat more composed than John. Tipsy then, maybe? "Aren't prisoners allowed a bit of joy in their tedious little lives? I can just picture his cellmates with extreme accuracy right now."

For some reason that struck John as insanely funny and he only laughed harder. "We should do that again, sometime."

"We always do that again, John, it's what we _do_."

There was a thud on the staircase where John apparently had fallen off laughing. "For god's sake, John, get up!" Sherlock said with a smile on his voice. There were some wrestling noises, and then he added, "You're unbearable when you're like this," but meant it with fondness.

"Shhhhh," he shushed, "Sherlock, _listen_."

"What?"

"It's _Elvis._ "

"Well, yes, it's been playing since we got here. Mrs. Hudson must have left the radio on before going to sleep."

"But it's _Elvis_."

"Meaning?"

"Meaning..." he was whispering now, "I think we _have to dance to it._ "

"Based on what social convention I am entirely unaware of?"

"Based on it's Elvis and I feel like dancing."

"I thought you disliked dancing."

"I dislike _waltzing_. This is different. It's slow."

"Slow... dancing," Sherlock repeated, strangely slow himself in his deduction. "With me."

Why were the boys acting so odd? Was it just the wine? Or was it... _Sugar. They haven't noticed yet._ Mrs. Hudson blew off a candle, hoping it would help the smell of her herbs to dissipate quicker. She opened up all the windows. She couldn't believe that was happening and it was entirely... well, partially, her fault. She was about to intervene when she heard:

"Fine. But just this one," Sherlock agreed. "I should go visit Molly first thing in the morning and it wouldn't help if she saw me looking this way." 

"Why you gotta go visit Molly for?"

"There's... something I need to ensure. Something I need her help with. Nothing serious."

"Nothing serious? That sounds ominous enough," John joked, with his voice muffled by what seemed like Sherlock's shoulder.

Mrs. Hudson did try to behave herself very valiantly, and ought to be congratulated for resisting thus far, but that was the last straw. She pushed the door slightly ajar.

John rested his arms over Sherlock's neck, who in his turn kept his on a firm grip over the doctor's lower back. They were moving sweetly to Elvis' deep, luring timbre as he explained through song something about what wise men said and only fools ignored. They were chatting, too low for her to listen, except for the giggles they let out from time to time, but it was mostly quiet in the hallway after the song finally ended.

Then, it happened. She should have seen it coming, but she really didn't. John pulled him down and planted one right in Sherlock's lips. She blinked and it was over.

But it all happens in slow-motion as far as her mind is concerned. And in that moment, she thinks she has finally unravelled the mistery of Sherlock Holmes.

_John kissed him because he was happy. And Sherlock... he let him._

_Sherlock lets him kiss him and doesn't try to push away. It's not because he's in love. It's not because he's been waiting for this. It's not part of any of his experiments. He lets him - because John is happy. And he can't deny John anything._

She blinks and it's over again, forever rewinding in her head.

John was smiling sheepishly. He would not remember this in the morning. 

Sherlock just stood there stoically like a statue from a Greek tragedy, processing. He needn't worry, though: his secret was safe with her. A secret he might have just began to fathom he had. Still, he wasn't ready... and still, he didn't _know_.

And if Sherlock left feeling a bit tense afterwards, Mrs. Hudson blamed in on the fumes.

 

*

 

There was no music in the air in the years Sherlock was gone.

Not a single note.

Mrs. Hudson couldn't bear going upstairs to clean the flat very often. It seemed like the walls were closing in around her each and every time she entered it, the colours going missing one by one, until grey was all that was left. There was a single drop of brightness, though, among the shelves of forgotten antiques and unbearable memories, standing out from all the rest. It was his violin, which she had arranged carefully over his armchair and polished it every now and then. It stood there elegantly, like it was waiting for something to happen, and it was so tragically beautiful she couldn't bring herself to get rid of any of it.

And so, life went on.

John took away whatever colour remained in her life when he wouldn't call her back. Sherlock remained dead.

And when he came back to find had John moved on and was getting married... 

She sighed.  _What a terrible way of realizing you're in love with someone._

 

*

 

The third time Mrs. Hudson saw them, they saw her for the very first time.

She thought she was never going to witness such a scene again. She should have been surprised, but then... she was. She would have preferred to look away this time, given the chance. It was truly an accident, though. At first. And if she chose to stay and break her elderly heart instead, she only had herself to blame.

"Boys," she singsonged as she went in, unannounced, "I have very good news to tell you! Mrs. Turner finally listened to me and stopped allowing that awful cat of hers to hide under my... Oh! I'm sorry. Am I... interrupting?"

"Not at all, Mrs. Hudson," John smiled warmly, turning around to see her. They were waltzing again, after three years, to a most melancholic song she had never heard. She didn't quite know what to do with herself. "I know it looks strange. Sherlock and I are only rehearsing for the first dance at the reception. He's teaching me the choreography he made for Mary and I to dance. And even composed it!"

"Did you now, Sherlock?" She looked at him, who was unusually quiet since she had arrived. "How wonderful."

He only nodded in response. Then quickly added, like he just remembered himself, "Well, it was the least I could since John decided to honor me with the responsibility of being his first man. I was glad I could be of any help."

Oh, _Sherlock._

"I guess then I'll just leave you to it," she replied with a tight smile. She couldn't get away any faster, and when she did, she plastered her back to the outside of their door, holding her chest with a heavy hand and the doorknob with the other. She shouldn't be experiencing any extreme emotions, the doctor told her. Her heart just wasn't anymore how it used to be and the years were finally catching up to her. Mrs. Hudson stood there unaware of her surroundings and panted for for a while, in and out, deep breaths, until she was fine again. She made her move to leave.

"You're supposed to let me lead, you know," Suddenly, she could her John's distant voice through the door. 

Her hand stubbornly turned the doorknob again.

"But I'm _teaching_ you," Sherlock complained.

"Yes, but it's _Mary_ who I'm dancing with."

"Oh," Sherlock's feet stopped for a second and he looked away. "Right. Of course." 

"Sorry," John said for no reason in particular, or perhaps many underlying reasons that were left unspoken. That instant, he searched Sherlock's face and was only met with discreet pain reflected in the detective's eyes. "I'm sorry, Sherlock."

John rested his head on Sherlock's shoulder as they swayed softly to the music. Sherlock held him tighter. 

Looking back, Mrs. Hudson did not remember seeing any of those moves in the wedding.

John closed his eyes.  _What a terrible way of realizing someone's in love with you._

 

*

 

Mrs. Hudson knew sadness like she supposed not many other people did. She'd endured terrible pain, the loss of an infant daughter, the terror of being married to someone who wasn't who she thought he was and who did unspeakable things for money, and the guilt of not being able to stop John's marriage and let him know he simply _couldn't_ do that to Sherlock. 

Still, she could swear to you it was the saddest thing she had ever witnessed when she spotted Sherlock Holmes - brilliant, invincible, unreachable Sherlock - tapping his foot absentmindedly, staring down the window, dancing to himself in his flat.

To Tchaikovsky, of all musicians. Didn't he mention once he loathed the man's work?

"I never knew you were there," he said, unexpectedly. He did not turn to face her. "Not at first. After scanning through the memories again, which I've been doing a lot since Mary's passing, I realized there was always something that didn't add up about those nights. A noise that I couldn't explain, a step when there should have been none, an odor that I never thought I'd smell in Baker Street. I must say I am impressed, Mrs Hudson. You managed to sneak up even on me for all these years. I seem to be getting ridiculously more careless as time goes by."

"Don't blame yourself for only having eyes for him, my dear."

He laughed bitterly, finally turning around.

"He would rather have anyone but me."

"Oh, my boy. You're the one he can't live without."

They were quiet for a while as he let her words sink in. He then smiled to her, a tiny smile meant to reassure her, and moved away from the window, resolutely, as the song reached its halt.

"Would you care to dance, Mrs. Hudson?" 

"Well, I thought you'd never ask," she teased, with her heart full of joy.

She knew how much Sherlock loved dancing, how he missed it. She laughed and laughed as he whirled her around the living room, mindful of her weary bones, so gentlemanly and so kind. She almost cried then, realizing how much her boy had grown.

After some time, she looked up to him, his eyes watching her with interest, like she was precious to him somehow. She couldn't handle it anymore.

"Your dance partner," she choked out. "You go and get him, Sherlock Holmes."

 

*

 

She stopped counting after the fourth time she saw them. Although it was a different sort of music they'd dance to these days, most of the time. 

Now, Sherlock was teaching someone else how to dance. Someone very small and excessively fond of movie songs for children. Not that Mrs. Hudson could blame her, she _was_  an infant after all, but hearing the same song over and over every day for countless months did get a bit repetitive after a while.

Sherlock didn't seem to mind it much, though. He'd lift Rosie up in a manner she didn't ever dream he was capable of, and dance as pirates and astronauts and kings and queens with his goddaughter until his sides hurt from exhaustion and then some more. John would watch them with awe, before swooping in as their white knight to the rescue, or bandit, or Daddy, or whatever she decided he was that day.

But once they'd put her to bed, some nights Mrs. Hudson could swear she heard music playing softly upstairs. Grown up music at that. For hours and hours until she fell asleep with a smug little smile on her face.

She didn't bother to check once.

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> I know this trope must have been explored to exhaustion already, but I figured I'd give it a go. I'm still reeling from that finale.
> 
> If you're interesting in listening what I've had in mind while they were dancing, here are some links:
> 
> The Blue Danube Waltz by Johann Strauss (You know I HAD to.)  
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_CTYymbbEL4
> 
> Can't Help Falling In love With You by Elvis Presley (A classic. I love this cover very much.)  
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=HS1OLc1WWnY
> 
> Valse Sentimentale by Tchaikosky (I don't know why, but I cry every time. You can pinpoint the moment when he starts dancing with Mrs. Hudson.) -  
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=rUuusqy50yk
> 
>  Thank you for reading and know that feedback is very much appreciated. See you next time.


End file.
